


every touch is a map

by littlemagician



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, appearances from everyone else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemagician/pseuds/littlemagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He arrives on a day that even <i>looks</i> like it fits him. It’s sunny and warm, inviting and comfortable and with the air of something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every touch is a map

He arrives on a day that even _looks_ like it fits him. It’s sunny and warm, inviting and comfortable and with the air of something new, of great things to come. But, thinking back, Cristiano can’t say it hits him all at once; it happened in stages and he should’ve seen it coming from miles away.

_(There was also the fact that Marcelo would never let him get away with it, because as playful and innocent looking as he was, Marcelo knew everything and saw everything even before Cristiano did. He was the smart one, the sensible one.)_

So, it starts with denial. He meets James - again, much more different than the first time, at some restaurant as a kid who started playing pro and idolizes him -, and this time as a teammate, and he’s ok, good, he’s an alright kid. A bit shy, Cristiano notices, what with the way he looks up at him, all big brown eyes shining, a hero-worship for him as obvious as his nervousness, a blush to his cheek that makes him look even younger than he is. He grins at everyone, curious and happy and excited, falls immediately into Marcelo’s orbit, and if Marcelo gives him a chance, everyone should, too.

Cristiano thinks he is alright.

-

At their first game together, Cristiano scores, and he’s the closest person to him, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s a teammate and he’s close, Cristiano is euphoric as he takes him by the hand, tugs until they’re close enough to hug. The boy throws his arms around his neck, and Cristiano doesn’t have to look to know he’s smiling from ear to ear, can tell he’s impressed, can tell he’s living the dream, and it makes him feel warm. It’s because he looks up to him, he thinks to himself, and it makes him happy. It could have easily been Isco, or Nacho, or Varane.

-

James likes him. That much is clear.

He may be Cristiano Ronaldo and he may be used to the love and admiration, but it’s still unusual when it presents itself in this form. Apart from his teammates, and not even all of them, he doesn’t get many other players showing such open affection towards him. Well, James _is_ his teammate now, he thinks, but it’s known that the feeling didn’t just surge into the kid when he put on the white shirt for the first time. He remembers now, how he looked at Cristiano exactly like this when they met and James looked even younger.

He does it in training, looks up to him (quite literally, too, since Cristiano is way taller), holds on to his every word, looks for him across the pitch and lands a perfect pass to him every time, never misses it.

Cristiano is ok with James.

He appreciates his talent – and that, the kid isn’t lacking, not at all. His passes are precise and his dribbling is good, he adapts fast, gets out of his shell more and more each day and his creativity is consistent.

Cristiano isn’t blind, though, even if he ignores these type of things when he sees it, but he does. James is not hard on the eyes, not by far, and he looks good with his cheeks flushed and his hair messed up after training, sweat dripping down his neck, constant smile gracing his lips. Cristiano ignores all that, though. It doesn’t really matter.

-

He doesn’t meant to do it.

He’s already stressed out in the beginning of the season, and all he can think is about how badly he wants to win the league this time, it’s been long enough, they _have_ to win it this time. Training starts and they all go about their business, Carlo giving them calm but sure instructions, makes them form small groups to train passes and dribbling.

Marcelo and Pepe and Fabio gather around as usual, Modric comes too and Bale tags along, and then they’re all separated, ready to pass the ball around as James joins them. No one bats an eyelash, not really, no one but Cristiano.

He doesn’t know why he does it, why suddenly he feels uncomfortable with shining eyes and a smile and then he’s being rude about it, pushing him away, telling him to go, _just go away, we’re full already,_ like a mean child kicking out the new kid from his table at lunch.

He sees the hurt and the embarrassment as James walks away, not blushing this time, but face red with resentment and anger and it’s all it takes for Cristiano to regret it almost immediately. No one says anything, but no one laughs it off as a joke either. Marcelo looks away, Bale kicks to ball and they all spur into action.

 

At lunch James seems fine again, he sits with Keylor and Isco and Nacho and Dani. He’s laughing at something Isco and saying, eyes shut and head thrown on Keylor’s shoulder. He seems fine. Cristiano waits for Marcelo as he walks around with his tray of food, who should join him and Fabio and Pepe, but the Brazilian stops two tables away, leaning in to whisper something in James’ ear, and Cristiano watches as the Colombian gives him a smile and nods, and Marcelo sits down and starts talking animatedly to them. Always Marcelo, fixing his shit for him.

They resume laughing and eating and Cristiano keeps to himself, is about to look away before James catches his eyes, only for a second and his smile fades, he looks down at his food and shoves the fork into his mouth, and doesn’t dare to look at Cristiano again for the rest of the day. Cristiano’s food turns bitter in his mouth.

When training finishes, he throws his bag over his shoulder and walks to Marcelo, claps his shoulder to get them going, since he’s driven Marcelo in the morning.

“So, ready?”

“You can go,” Marcelo says, turning back to his backpack and shoving his things inside it. Cristiano winces, knows he’s in trouble.

“Wait, come on, I’m driving you back.” Cristiano tries, but he knows it’s no use.

“No, you’re not,” Marcelo says calmly, without a hint of anger, which means he’s disappointed, and it’s even worse than he thought.

“What did I do now?” Cristiano asks, and Marcelo turns around this time.

“You know what you did. You’re a fucking dick, sometimes. I swear, it’s like it’s not even you, but the asshole others make you out to be.” He shakes his head, walking past Cristiano, speaking in low Portuguese, almost as if he’s muttering to himself instead of him. Cristiano follows, tries to defend himself, and he’s lucky the locker room is almost empty. Fabio is not wrong when he says they’re either like a married couple or 8 year old best friends, no in between.

“Ouch. Okay, I didn’t—We were already all sorted out, come on, Marce—“

“Oh, yeah, that was it? Would you do that to Sergio? Dani? Would you even do that to Kroos?” Marcelo raises his voice, honestly losing patience with him.

“You’re exaggerating, it wasn’t even that bad. He needs to grow some thick skin, Pepe’s jokes are worse than that,”

“What is wrong with you? That wasn’t a fucking joke, was it? No one laughed. It was mean, you were just rude, ugh--,” Marcelo pokes his chest and points a finger in his face.

“Go home, man.”

“What about—“

“He’s waiting for me in the parking lot, he’s driving me home.” And then Marcelo’s gone.

Cristiano feels like shit.

-

He’s home and he doesn’t see this shit, not normally, but Fabio texts him two links to the news with the caption ‘dude that wasn’t nice’, and Cristiano didn’t even know the press filmed the whole thing. It looks petty, even worse than it felt, and he feels guilt set in his stomach again, full force this time.

They say all kinds of shit, too. They say he’s jealous of James, say he feels threatened, say their egos are clashing and they’re fighting inside the team. They make fun of James, too, and that’s the worst part.

He’s already set on apologizing, but he barely has time to get the courage to do so before Iker intervenes as soon as they arrive to training the next day. He slaps the back of Cristiano’s head with his gloves and Cristiano turns to him.

“Apologize.” He says, and then he’s off to where Sergio is waiting for him, helps him put his gloves on.

-

He waits until everyone’s getting out there, and he touches James’ shoulder and motions for him to stay behind. The kid bites his lower lip, as if considering if he should, as if scared Cristiano’s gonna tell him to fuck off. He waits, though, and Marcelo shoots Cristiano a warning look before leaving them alone.

“Hey,” Cristiano approaches him. “I’m. I just want to say I’m sorry.”

James stares at him, not impressed, waiting for Cristiano to go on. Cristiano takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I was in a shitty mood yesterday, I know it’s not an excuse but— I didn’t meant to lash out on you.”

James waits again, as if reading his expression, but then he speaks, only a soft “ok” before turning around, starting to head to the training pitch. Cristiano almost groans, touches his shoulder again and James stops.

“Look, you don’t have to apologize just because someone making you do it. I’m not a child.” James says, looking visibly annoyed, but disappointed, too. Cristiano hates that he’s the one to put that look on his face.

“I know, I’m not—They’re already saying a lot of shit, I need you to know that’s not true. It wasn’t anything to do with you, I really was in a shitty mood.”

“I said it’s fine, Cristiano,” James says, but less coldly this time. “I don’t care about what the media says, anyway.”

Cristiano smiles at that. “Good,” He says. “Just don’t steal my free kicks.”

He waits for it, waits until James lets out a chuckle, and then he joins in, feeling the weight on his shoulder get a little easier to carry.

“Can’t promise anything,” James says, and they head to the pitch together.

-

The more he tries to keep his distance, the worse he gets at it. It starts with jokes here and there, dragging James around in training just to mess with the Spain’s stupid sports media; the kid goes along, laughs, blushes. He pushes Cristiano off him weakly, but mostly just lets himself be dragged around and showered with over the top displays of affection.

“What is it with you trying to monopolize James’ attention?” Marcelo asks him one day, passing the ball to him after he catches Cristiano laughing at James from across the pitch.

“With what?” Cristiano asks dumbly, but Marcelo just squints at him. “We’re just messing around, the press is still talking shit.”

“He’s a good guy,” Marcelo comments, and it’s almost casual enough, but Cristiano knows him too well.

“He _is_ a nice kid, yeah,” Cristiano says, but continues when Marcelo says nothing. “What?”

“You know you’re kind of his idol, right?” Marcelo starts, but he doesn’t laugh or plays it off as a joke when Cristiano rolls his eyes. “I’m serious, you’re kind of a big deal to him.”

“Yeah, I know,, but he’s a teammate now, so… Your point?”

“My point is,” Marcelo sighs. “I don’t know… Just, be careful with him.”

Cristiano rolls his eyes again. “Look, I’ve apologized, I’m not gonna be a dick again. Besides, he’s not a child…”

“Yeah, that’s not what I’m worried about,” Marcelo says, but Ancelotti starts dividing teams before he can ask what the hell he meant.

-

“Nervous?” He asks from behind the boy, who almost jumps in surprise as he faces him. He relaxes the slightest bit when Cristiano puts a hand on his shoulder, but he only notices because he watches everything James does closely (and tries not to think about it, too). They’re about to head to the tunnel, minutes before their first Champions League match of the year.

James nods in response, biting hard on his bottom lip, trying not to look as nervous as he felt but failing miserably. Cristiano smiles fondly.

“You’ll do great,”

“Well, I have to, don’t I.” James says, and Cristiano knows it too well, knows the pressure of having to impress, especially for a new signing, especially someone who’s adapting, someone who’s been branded as shirt seller, someone who’s barely played 3 games before he’s being criticized for not delivering. He saw the frustration, the need to win after two losses in a row.

Cristiano has the urge to hug him, then, but he doesn’t do it. He squeezes James’ shoulder one more time, and leads the way to the tunnel.

-

Their first goal comes fifteen minutes into the game, and even though it’s not ideal, an advantage is an advantage. James passes the ball to Nacho in a perfect backheel, who shoots towards the goal before the ball touches a Basel player and slips between the bars. It doesn’t take longer than that for Bale to score his, and a minute later Cristiano’s opportunity comes, too. Bale passes him the ball and he sends it flying to the back of the net.

He runs towards the crowd of the Bernabeu, screaming for them and that’s why all this was worth it. He jumps and throws his arms back in celebration, hugs Bale in thanks, but as soon as he’s out of reach he sees James walking up to them, hears the congratulations in his ear.

It’s a good enough score for the first half, they keep up rhythm and wait for the half time, but minutes before, he watches as Karim takes a shot towards the goal, an almost missed chance if it weren’t for James being right there to back him up, scoring their fourth goal. Somehow he knows it before he does that James will run to him for a hug. He opens his arms, brings the Colombian into a hug and feels himself being wrapped in his arms, face tucked into the juncture of Cristiano’s neck and shoulder.

“You’re so good, so fucking good.” Cristiano says and James laughs into his ear, drops a soft, barely there kiss on his neck before he pull away just a little, just enough for James to hug Karim with the most grateful expression on his face.

They end up winning 5-1, and it’s a good enough result to get everyone in the locker room in the mood for celebration, for a _comeback_. It felt good winning again, breaking the curse of a crisis, feeling the buzz of a well worked victory.

They’re all laughing while Marcelo fights Sergio over who plays their music first until Marcelo wins, and loud music comes slightly distorted from the small blaster they brought along. His eyes find James, looking up at Marcelo with eyes shining with happiness, mouthing the words to whatever Reggaeton song was playing. As if he knows, though, he lowers his gaze and scans around the room until his eyes stop exactly where Cristiano is. Cristiano feels something warm uncurl in his chest, something mixed with a pride and he can’t quite name.

James gives his a smile as big as he must be feeling, and Cristiano nods, smiles back more discreetly but in the best way he knows. He gets up and walks to the corner where he’s sitting, sits beside him, splayed out and content.

“How are you feeling?” It’s a dumb question, but somehow he wants to hear James explain his happiness.

“Amazing,” He chuckles, as if drunk on happiness. “It’s good to win.”

“And you scored,” Cristiano points out.

“So did you,” He said in a way that sounds like it’s a bonus, like the fact that Cristiano scored specifically adds to his happiness. If Cristiano wasn’t himself, he’d feel almost disconcerted at the admiration.

“I did,” Cristiano chuckles. “But yours was special, wasn’t it? First Champions League goal and all. A pretty nice one.” James ducks his head, accepts the compliment with a flush of his cheeks but doesn’t look shy at all, just plain content in a way that’s infectious. 

“How do you even know that, by the way?” James asks, a mix between confused and amused. Cristiano shrugs.

“I just knew.” He says, and pats his thigh before making his way to the shower, but he knows James’ eyes are staring at his back.

-

"Lost something over there?" It's Sergio who asks, following Cristiano's eyes until they zero in on James, laughing and trying to get away from the arms of a smaller Isco wrapped on his back. The malagueño has a death grip on James' waist, who squirms and lets out a noise that's a mix of laughter and pain when Isco bites his shoulder, then proceeds to plant a loud, wet kiss on James' cheek, running back to Dani before James can to anything cruel, like giving him a light slap to the chest.

"What do you mean?" Cristiano says, averting his gaze and kicking the ball towards Sergio, who catches it with his left foot but doesn't kick back.

"You watch him a lot," Sergio shrugs, and lets Cristiano take the ball from underneath his foot, not even trying to avoid being dribbled.

"Isco? I don't watch Isco." Cristiano says. Sergio glares.

"But you do watch James," He says. "I thought at first that it might be a 'I don't like you' look, I don't know, since he’s not Mes or Ángel."

"I don't have a problem with him--" Cristiano rolls his eyes.

"No, yeah, I figured." Sergio says. "You still watch him, though. Like you’re curious."

"I don't." Cristiano refrains from seeming annoyed, the way he gets when he knows someone's saying the truth, but he doesn't want to admit it. He does kind of watch him, sometimes. It means nothing. "And Iker's calling for you."

Sergio immediately turns around, eyes searching for Iker, but the goalkeeper looks more interested in stopping the penalties Jesé is trying to score. He turns back to Cristiano, but before he can say anything Cristiano already gone, walking away with the ball at his feet to join Fabio and Pepe and Marcelo on their dribbling training.

-

They're coming back from a difficult, draining win against Ludogorets. The plane's lights are turned off to make the 4 hour flight back to Madrid more comfortable for sleep, leaving the lights of Sofia behind them as they take off. Cristiano sits alone, gets a pillow and a blanket even though he knows he won't be able to sleep, not until he gets home, and maybe not even then.

As he looks around, most of the squad is asleep 40 minutes into the flight. He looks at the seats across from him, three rows up, catches Iker and Sergio still awake, as Cristiano thought they'd be; heads bowed together, talking in low voices and concerned faces, shadowed by the weight of being captains of the biggest team in the world, a team where a mediocre win is almost as bad as tying.

He almost misses it, almost. A few rows back, his eyes catch the row James is sitting alone, right behind Marcelo and Pepe. He's looking out of the window, no trace of sleep, but his whole posture seems tired, tense. Before he knows, Cristiano is getting up as quietly as he can, ignoring his own wish of being left alone, and suddenly he finds himself standing in front of the empty seat beside James.

"Hi," He says, making sure his voice is low enough he doesn't wake up anyone, especially - god forbid - Pepe. James looks up surprised, but doesn't give away any 'fuck off' vibes. Cristiano counts it as a win. "Is the seat taken?"

"No, no, you can--" James says, sits up a bit straighter, a bit farther away from the empty seat. Cristiano tries not to be too disappointed the boy still doesn't seem fully comfortable around him. He sits down anyway, leans against the armchair and into James' space. James relaxes a bit.

"How are you?" James asks, and Cristiano doesn't know what he means. How are you feeling after failing to score a penalty kick? How are you feeling after playing like shit and trying and trying but not managing to score a goal that wasn't another penalty kick? He shrugs. It feels like shit, he wants to say, but it won't help anything.

"We won." He says simply. James nods.

"We did. It wasn't pretty, but hey. We won, right?" James says, small smile gracing his lips before continuing. "It's not like we didn't score 20 goals in 4 matches before this game."

"Madrid arrogance getting to your head, already?" Cristiano retorts, but he can't help smiling back, just wide enough that James knows it's just a joke. James rolls his eyes.

"It's statistics, it's true." He says. There's silence after that, but it's not as uncomfortable as Cristiano thought it should be for two people who are still getting to know each other. James looks out of the window again, but Cristiano looks at him.

"Do you think..." James says, his voice low and Cristiano almost thinks he's speaking to himself, but he hears him anyway because of how close they're sitting together. "Do you think they like me already?"

Cristiano feels it tug at his heart strings, someone as friendly and talented and genuine as James doubting people's affections for him. He wants to say he likes him enough for anyone who's heartless enough not to, but it's the middle of the night and corny in a way Cristiano doesn't want to be.

"You settled in just fine, James," He says, hand squeezing the other's arm. "We all like you. Marcelo, I think he might be in love with you. Iker slaps you with his gloves and pinches your sides, that's the most affection he can express to anyone on the team who isn’t Sergio or Marcelo."

James laughs, then, eyes crinkling at the corner and head throws back against the seat. He bites his lower lip, shakes his head. "I didn't mean the team. I meant the fans."

He doesn't know how it happens, if it's him or James or both, but they end up lacing their fingers together above the armrest. James’ palm is warm and smaller than his, and Cristiano traces a pattern of circles on the younger man's hand with the tip of his thumb.

"I don't want to be just a shirt seller like they say in the press, you know? I'm not just a luxury item. I wanna help."

"They'll love you." Cristiano says. "You're already helping, but with more time? You'll be brilliant."

"Well, I am learning from the best." James smiles, and Cristiano grins at him. "By the best I mean Luka, by the way."

Cristiano lets out a bark of surprised laughter then, louder than intended, that earns them a look from Sergio and Iker and a 'shhhh' from Dani sleeping across from them. Cristiano finds out he doesn't really mind it when James is practically beaming at him.

-

Marcelo, being the little shit he is, abstains from actually being any help in his own plan at all; choosing instead to quite literally roll on the carpet of Cristiano’s living room with laughter. James, Cristiano thinks, must probably look beet red in that moment from the effort of not joining him, but Cristiano couldn’t know that. He couldn’t see it, because James was standing behind him, hands on his hips, trying to summon whatever latino blood Cristiano absolutely did not have in him. He’s thankful Cristianinho is not there to witness him making a fool out of himself.

“Come on, not like that,” James says. “Like this.” He tries not to be disappointed when James gets his hands off him and moves to stand on his side to show him how it’s done.

“He’s gonna ruin it. He’ll ruin our dance.” Marcelo says, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes. Cristiano ignores him, mostly because he stares at James moving his hips a bit more than what’s acceptable for friendly banter. Luckily, doing things that cross the line of friendly and reach the edge of homoerotic as hell is just a thing the entire team is used to.

“It’s not that bad,” Cristiano says, even though he’s pretty sure he is. Not everyone can dance like Marcelo, certainly not like James – who, by the way, wills himself not to laugh in Cristiano’s face, which he appreciates, but proceeds to fail when he looks at Marcelo.

“Remember when Dani was drunk and convinced he could do us all a strip tease after the Copa del Rey last season?” Marcelo says thoughtfully. “It’s worse.”

“I actually can’t believe you had to sit through a strip tease from Dani.” James seems horrified.

“Oh no, we didn’t– Isco, bless his soul, knocked him off the chair before we were traumatized for life.”

“I hate both of you,” Cristiano decides, offended by the comparison.

“No, you don’t,” Marcelo says, then gets up and straightens his plaid shirt, grabs his phone and car keys from the coffee table. “Anyway, I gotta go watch Enzo’s match. Promise me you’ll score against Bilbao so I can, once again, be responsible for you embarrassing yourself on international television?”

“Tell him good luck from me,” Cristiano says, and then. “Also, you’re not allowed in my house anymore, ever again.”

Marcelo laughs at him, slaps him on the head despite the height difference, kisses James loudly on the cheek and shows himself out.

And then, he finds himself alone with James in his house, some reggaeton song that sounds like every other reggaeton song playing from James’ phone. He smiles at Cristiano, a faint blush to his cheeks that’s more endearing than should be allowed on the face on a grown man.

“You’re a failure as a teacher.” Cristiano breaks the silence first.

“No, no, I think I’m great as a teacher,” James says. “I’m just not such a good miracle worker outside the pitch, apparently.”

“Marcelo is a bad influence on you,” Cristiano points an accusatory finger at him.

“He’s my favorite influence.” James laughs. Cristiano’s not a bit jealous. He’s an adult, and it would be stupid, considering Marcelo is his best friend on the team, one of his best friends outside of it, and he shares the sentiment.

“I thought I was your favorite,” It’s out of his mouth, anyway. James grins.

“You’re a close second, although you did just reject my offer of helping you actually learn how to dance for our celebration.”

“I didn’t reject it, that would be rude.” Cristiano grins back, unable to contain himself. “I just said you’re terrible at teaching.”

“Well, I should get going if I’m not needed anymore.” James says, and even makes a show of turning away. His phone is still on Cristiano’s small expensive table, and his shoes are still off. Cristiano doesn’t even mind calling him out on it, grabbing his wrist instead and pulling him back, careful not to do it so James would collide against his chest.

“You don’t need abilities to watch a movie. I’ll even order us food to repay you for your useless efforts.”

James smiles again, this time is smile #5, or would be, if Cristiano had them mentally catalogued. It’s the one where his eyes are pure joy and his jaw gets a bit crooked and he looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s happened to him. It’s disconcerting and dumb and Cristiano feels incredibly moved and warm and, whatever, feelings.

 

Later, when they’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, but James has one foot propped on his lap, his phone vibrates.

_ ‘he still there?’  _

_‘We’re watching a movie’_ Cristiano answers Marcelo.

 _‘hmmmm ok’_ Marcelo replies a second later, followed by a series of eye emojis.

_‘We’re just watching a movie.’_

_ ‘thats how it starts always……..’  _

Cristiano ignores him for the rest of the day.

-

They win their first Clásico of the season, and they win it beautifully at home, after a scare of being scored on by Neymar less than 10 minutes into the game. It’s Sergio who throws the party first, and even Iker agrees they deserve it.

It’s not as flashy as most people would think, listening to music and drinking a few beers on Sergio’s backyard, the adrenaline from the game wearing off but the satisfaction of beating Barcelona still high on their veins. It’s all very domestic. Sergio sitting between Iker’s legs and whispering in his ear, more drunk on happiness than actual alcohol; Isco and Dani and Nacho by the pool, laughing loudly at Marcelo and Pepe bickering, speaking in such quick drunken Spanish it’s difficult to grasp from a distance.

Cristiano’s sitting with Karim on the couch in front of the expensive, flashy fire pit in Sergio’s backyard, talking about these shoes he got that Cristiano absolutely had to try. Karim’s phone goes off at some point, and he goes to a private corner to answer it, flipping Cris off as he smirks knowingly.

Then James is sitting by his side, slightly unsteady on his legs. His face is soft and pleased, if a bit drunk and despite the cut above his left eye, the one he got on the game against Liverpool. A much different James from before the game, the one that almost tore his bottom lip in concentration and anxiety of his first Clásico.

He doesn’t bother sitting distantly from Cristiano, their legs pressed together and arms touching. He smiles up at Cristiano.

“Hi.”

“Hey, you,” Cristiano replies, unable to keep the smirk off his face. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m happy,” James shrugs. “Being drunk is relative.”

“It’s not, actually.” Cristiano laughs, and puts his arm around James’ shoulder, bringing them ever closer, wondering if he shouldn’t do it. James doesn’t even blink, though, just leans into the touch and slouches on the two-seat couch even more. It’s more comfortable than it should be.

“Feels good.”

“What does?”

“Winning. Against Barcelona.” James smiles cheekily, eyes closed.

Cristiano chuckles. “Yeah, it does. Congrats on your assist.”

James almost blushes, tucks his face between Cristiano’s neck and shoulder. He’s drunk, Cristiano reminds himself, let him be. Of course he’d be even more touchy when he’s drunk.

“Thanks.” He says. “They screamed my name, at the Bernabeu. After the game.”

Cristiano smiles, then, feeling James doing the same even if he can’t see.

“I saw, I heard.” Cristiano says. “I told you it’d happen.”

“Thank you.” He says, and ponctuates it by kissing a spot below Cristiano’s ear, and then his cheek. Cristiano feels hot, and he suspects it has nothing to do with the fire in front of them. Karim walks straight past them, not looking at Cristiano but it’s his turn to smirk, and he Cristiano’s turn to flip him off behind James back.

“I didn’t do much.” He answers the Colombian.

“You kind of did.” James says, but doesn’t bother to clarify. Cristiano doesn’t ask.

-

James scores his first brace for Real on a game Cristiano isn’t even playing, but he’s watching from the the stands with Junior by his side. He’s been told to rest and take better care of his knee, a discussion he has with the team’s physiotherapist at least once a month. Ancelotti is final on his word, though, no playing against Cornella on their second Copa del Rey game.

He watches the game nervous in the way he gets when he feels useless, except this time he can’t do a thing, literally, standing in his normal clothes and sitting there. It doesn’t take long for the anxiety to wear off and be replaced by pride.

James and Isco lead a brilliant game.

They each score and assist each other, the footwork is beautiful and Cornella doesn’t have any hope, if they ever had any to begin with. He watches as the stands chant Isco’s and James’ name in unison, and Jesé’s when he finally makes his comeback with a goal of his own. He knows it’ll become a usual situation, James being praised, and he knows he deserves it.

He shakes off the uneasiness he feels at how easy James and Isco click together on and off the pitch, how easy the affection is between them. He shakes it off because it’s good for the team and good for them, and he doesn’t even know why it bothers him on the first place.

He doesn’t go to the locker room after it ends, just sends out congratulatory texts. He doesn’t expect his phone to flash with a new message so soon. It’s, unsurprisingly, James.

_ ‘don’t get used to chanting for me from the stands, come back soon’ _

_‘you did fine without me’_ Cristiano sends, followed by a second answer. _‘also who even said i chanted for you’_

_ ‘:( you didn’t?’  _

_‘fuck off’_

_‘ miss you too :)))))’_ James answers, with an inhumane sequence of kissy, smiling emojis. Cristiano knows he’s messing with him, but doesn’t dignify him with an answer.

-

They feel on top of the world, and Club World Cup comes soon, ready to crown an unbelievable, uninterrupted sequence of wins. He doesn’t score at the final, but they still win. The pitch is a mess off celebrations, and he loses track of who hugs and kisses him. Except when James manages to find him in the crowd, he’s well aware of him, well aware of the way his face being cupped and he’s receiving a kiss on the corner of his jaw. He puts an arm around James and feels lightheaded, keeps him close for a few acceptable seconds before letting go.

They exchange a look, then, filled with fondness and happiness and other things Cris doesn’t feel like naming. They’re top of the table and world champions and they can’t stop winning. They feel invincible.

They trip back home feels lazy with the win, everyone in a haze of how good it feels. He sits with James the whole trip, and when the other falls asleep with his head on Cristiano’s shoulder, no one says a thing; no one even bats an eyelash. He lets himself close his eyes, too, too tired to think about what that means.

-

The cracks start appearing in January. They lose their first game of the second half of the season, an ugly away loss to Valencia, and the effects of it are more crushing than they would be if they hadn’t gone on a 22 match winning streak. It gets worse when three days later, they lose the derby at another ugly away match. It’s the worst way to remember they’re not, actually, invincible. They might not even win the league.

It’s a heavy weight to carry into the Ballon D’or ceremony.

“It’s ok that it’s about you, leave the team’s problems away for a second.” Iker tells both him and James, hugs both before they have to head off to the ceremony. He keeps Sergio away for few moments more before he joins them.

He doesn’t see much of James or Sergio or Toni at the ceremony. As expected, they sit him next to Messi and his beautiful wife, make them all wonder even more why he doesn’t have Irina on his arm. He ignores it, makes friendly conversation with his ‘rival’, whom he actually doesn’t have any personal problems with, keeps himself in company of his mother and son and pretends his confidence doesn’t falter.

He watches Sergio and Toni receive their awards, claps and feels proud of his teammates, texts Iker about it because he knows it’s special to him, too. He’d be lying if he says he didn’t get nervous when Puskas time comes, but his confidence in James proves itself well placed when he wins it, the most beautiful goal of the year. The pride is stronger this time, maybe because he’s closer to James. He likes to think so, anyway.

The ceremony goes in a blur and before he knows, he’s letting out a ridiculous scream on the stage and hugging his son, giving thanks and trying not to cry.

 

He only finds James much later, Daniela on his arm and looking every bit of the lovely couple they are. They smile at each other from across the room, and both of them walk towards him. Daniela gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, congratulates him; then gives him a smile, like she knows something. He doesn’t have time to panic about it before she pats his arm, tells him she’ll give him and James a moment and walks away, linking arms with Pilar as both women start talking with hands over mouths.

“I knew it’d be you,” James says, then, when it’s just the two of them. He pulls Cristiano into a hug, wraps his arms around his torso and Cristiano goes in easily, cups the back of his head and turns his face, waiting for the inevitable kiss on the cheek - or rather, his neck - that seems a lot like tradition now.

“I could say the same. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, it means alot coming from the best player in the world.” James nudges him when they separate, and Cristiano is sure they smile dumbly at each other for more than a minute. He resists the urge to hug him again, or something worse, like kiss him.

And then it hits him. He wants to, when he thinks about it – and then there’s that stupid rule: you want not to think about something, and because of that, you can’t stop thinking about it.

He wants to kiss James Rodríguez. He wants to kiss him, his teammate, his _married_ teammate.

It feels familiar in a way that isn’t good, in a way that hurts.

Sergio comes to them before he can even react to the thought.

“Sorry to interrupt the love fest,” He says, downing the rest of champagne on his flute. “But we have a plane to catch.”

Toni shrugs behind him, apologetically.

 

When they all make their way back, James has a hand on Cristiano’s wrist, but they don’t talk again until they’re back in Madrid and say their goodnights.

-

Shit starts piling up the moment they get knocked off Copa del Rey officially, by Atlético Madrid of all teams. Their performances drop and the media attacks, and even though they keep winning, it’s not enough to stop a bad phase from coming. It can’t seem to stop getting worse, especially when he loses his temper and lashes out at a player, gets sent off and suspended from two matches and disappoints his entire team.

To top everything, hell breaks loose on a home game against Sevilla. He watches from the box seats, and it starts with Sergio getting injured. It looks bad enough that Iker leaves his post to check on him, bad enough he gets subbed off. James scores first, a bit after that, and everything seems fine and the bad luck crisis averted, until he’s victim of a particularly nasty tackle. Cristiano holds his breath.

James walks aways limping, and Cristiano has a feeling it’s worse than he’s thought.

He pulls his phone out, knowing James will get hold of it sometime soon.

_‘Are you okay’_

_‘What happened?_

He gets an answer fifteen minutes later.

_ ‘i think it’s bad’ _

_ ‘i think something’s broken on my foot’ _

_ ‘i’m going to the hospital right now’ _

He wants to do something stupid, like go follow him to the hospital, but he knows he can’t. The knot on his stomach only gets worse when the news start, saying he could be out for up to 7 months depending on the extent of his injury. In the end, he has a broken bone on his foot and need for surgery, and Cristiano has to go home and get his shit together, tell himself it’s normal that a teammate getting injured makes him feel this fucking sad.

As if the fact that his 30th birthday was on the following day wasn’t enough to get him depressed.

-

He can't cancel it, not even after they lose pathetically, 4-0 to Atlético Madrid - fucking Atleti, always them. He can't and he doesn't cancel his birthday party, not even if he knows he'll get shit for it from the media. It's not like he isn't used to, anyway.

He feels like shit all the way through it, but manages to hold a smile on his face, plays host and celebrates, even if he doesn't feel like celebrating at all.

James comes, along with Keylor and Marcelo and Luka, they sit together and Cristiano feels grateful, promises he'll go sit with them as soon as his family stops stopping him every 5 seconds to take pictures or make small talk.

He never gets to spend more than a few minutes with them, but it's nice to know they're there; comforting in a way that other people outside the squad wouldn't understand.

 

He's exhausted already, looks at his watch and sees it's still 2 in the morning, avoids thinking that maybe age is catching up to him. It feels too much, too heavy and he needs air, needs to breathe and be alone for a couple of minutes. He slips away from the people and finds the balcony outside, closed the door before him; suddenly the live music is muffled, and the cold Madrid air hits him. He breathes. Downs the rest of the bottle of water he's nursing.

Of course, he doesn't go 5 minutes without being looked for. The door behind him opens and he's sighs, ready to tell whoever it is that he's making a call and will be back in a moment, but the words die in his throat when he sees it's James. The Colombian closes the door behind him, joins him on the balcony. Cristiano's heart feels a little lighter.

"You okay?" He asks, voice low but they're close enough that it can be heard over the music.

"I should be the one asking you that." He says instead. "I'm sorry about your foot."

"Yeah. Thanks for the flowers," James says, referring to the arrangement Cristiano got delivered to his house after the surgery.

"You'll get better in no time."

"Still sucks to be away for two months." James says sadly, face falling at the prospect of being away for so long.

"It'll be hard to be without you." Cristiano says, but he's quick enough to add "I mean, you've become such an important part of the team."

James doesn't answer that, though. "You still haven't answered me what's wrong."

Cristiano bites his lip. What can he even say? Everything feels like shit, the media can't stop coming at him, he feels old and feels like failing his team and he's having feelings for a married teammate _again_?

"A lot is wrong, but I'm trying not to think about that today."

"Right," James says, too understanding and too genuine. "Obviously. Sorry. You just seemed-- you know you can talk to me, right? I mean, not today, but. When you need. Anyway, I'm gonna leave you alone now."

Cristiano feels his heart tighten at the thought of being alone now, gives into the impulse of grabbing the younger man's hand and pulling him back before he can walk away. The Colombian spurs into action, then, looking at the very probably defeat expression Cristiano knew he must have had at that moment and envelops him in a hug, and Cristiano doesn't even think twice before melting into it. He buries his face on the crook of James' neck, taking advantage of the fact that he's a good two palms taller than him.

He stays like that for a while, breathes in the scent of him, the soap and the aftershave and the something more. James is the one to pull away first, but only enough to look up at Cristiano. He almost leans down.

He cups James' face with one hand, strokes his cheekbone and almost, almost leans down enough to do something stupid, like kiss him.

He knows he can't, though. He knows this isn't how it works. He can't take advantage of James, not after he has been nothing but a great friend to him. He can't expect him to return his feelings, James who's married and is a teammate and has a beautiful family.

He's done that once and it was bad enough.

Instead, he kisses his forehead, murmurs a thank you and goes back inside, too scared to see his reaction.

-

When he's alone, he calls the only person he can think of, the only person who would understand.

"Hello?" Kaká says on the other end of the line, voice surprised but not at all displeased. "Cris?"

Cristiano lets out a breath. The familiar voice makes his heart hurt, but it's distant now, years after everything.

"Ricky. Hi."

"Hey, how are you? Did you get my messages?" He says. "Happy birthday, again."

"I did, thanks. It's not even my birthday anymore, here." Cristiano says. "Are you-- were you asleep?"

"No, I was just reading. What is it? Did something happen?"

He feels guilty, then, that Ricky instantly knows something's happened, because Cristiano rarely ever calls just to catch up. He feels like a shitty friend.

"Nah, tell me, how are you? We haven't caught up in a while."

Kaká humors him, tells him about the kids and the team and how life has been, purposefully only briefly mentions the sensible situation of his marriage. Cristiano asks questions about his children and if he has been keeping up with Real at all.

"Ok, come on," Kaká says. "Tell me what's wrong." Because he knows Cristiano better than Cristiano knows himself.

Cristiano is silent for a while, but it doesn't matter with Ricky's endless patience, knowing he needed to talk.

"I think I might fuck things up with someone again." His sigh sounds heavy on the phone.

"Cris, what are you even-- What are you talking about?" Kaká asks, but Cristiano knows it's not a question as much as it's him indignated that Cristiano thinks he's fucked up anything. He's always been too protective of Cristiano for his own good. He doesn't answer.

He hears Kaka make a noise of frustration on the other end, not in annoyance or exasperation, but giving up on trying to convince Cris otherwise.

"Tell me about him." Is what he says instead. And of course he knew. Cristiano doesn't even bat an eyelash, because he's not surprised with how much Ricky knows him.

So Cristiano does. He tells him about the shy boy he met in a restaurant 3 years back, who told him he was his idol and who dreamed about playing with him. He tells him about how he tried - _I swear Ricky, I tried to keep my distance_ -, but he has always been weak for genuine, gentle smiles and touches. He talks about James and how he misses him when he’s away and he wants to touch and he shouldn’t - _he’s married, Ricky._ He tells him about how James talks about him and he gets this look in his eyes, how he waits for him so they can walk together and how he looks at him sometimes and it’s like James _knows_ because he looks back and smiles, doesn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed.He tells him about the flirting and the hand holding, the whispered conversations in planes and on the bus; about how they always look for each other in celebrations, the kisses and – how he almost kissed him, which led to this whole mess of existential crisis in the first place.

“I can’t fall–” Cristiano sighs when he’s done; saying it out loud didn’t make him feel lighter. It just laid his feelings bare, out in the open so he can feel guilty about it. “I can’t have feelings for him, Ricky. I can’t fuck up like this again.”

“Cris, god– You know you never did anything wrong, right? Not to me, Cris, never to me. You think you ruined something, but you didn’t.”

“That’s because you were always too good to let me ruin anything. But I tried.” Cristiano laughs humorlessly.

“I’m sorry, Cris. I’m sorry I made you like this. You know,” Kaka stops himself, but sighs heavily on the other end of the line. “I know you don’t need to hear this, but you need to know. I did love you. I do, I still do love you, even if we don’t talk as much as I wanted, you’re still my best friend. You’re the best man I know. I wish circumstances were different.”

“Don’t be sorry you didn’t love me like that, fuck, Ricky, it’s not your fault” Cristiano groans. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Kaka sighs again, the way he did when he wanted to go against whatever Cristiano was saying, but knew it wouldn’t make a much difference.

“James is not me,” Kaká says, voice careful. “I mean, apart from the obvious differences. You can’t convince yourself this is history repeating itself, because we’re different, and you’re different than the Cristiano you were years ago.”

“And what, you telling me to go after a married man, Ricky?”

“I’m telling you that you need to sort this out. With him. Don’t exclude him from the process as if his feelings don’t matter.” Kaká says, in the annoying way he does when he knows exactly what Cristiano’s thinking. “You can’t just assume how he feels because it’s easier for you to hide how you feel about him and do that thing you do.”

“What thing?” Cristiano asks, because there’s really nothing he can say to fight Kaká when he gets philosophical and _right_.

“You let yourself be unhappy because you think it’s doing someone some good. And it’s not. He cares about you, anyone can see it. Let him decide for himself how he feels.”

The line goes silent for a while, Kaká giving him time to absorb everything he said, organize his thoughts. He knows he’s right.

“My god, you’re so annoying.” Cristiano rolls his eyes, even if he knows the other can’t see. Kaká lets out a surprised laugh on the other end, and the sound is so _Ricky_ , so familiar that it makes Cristiano’s heart ache with how much he misses him – but now it feels distant, it doesn’t hurt to think about it.

“I miss you, too.”

“I’m going to let you sleep now.” Cristiano says. “Thank you.”

“Good luck, Cris. Listen to me just this once, yeah?”

He considers.

-

He would like to say he took Ricky’s advices to heart, but he doesn’t have the time to, or the opportunity to. James starts his recovery process from his injury, and even if he’s on the same place as Cristiano daily, they never see each other at all. Cristiano outside with everyone while James stays inside the facilities, works on his foot and, worst of all, has been radio silent. They don’t text or call or talk at all in almost two months. The team drops important points faster than they got an advantage, and to top all of it, they lose the Clásico and barely make it through against Schalke 04 in the Champion’s League.

The locker room feels like a funeral. They feel - know - they’ve lost the league already. Again. Another year.

He’s angry, angry at the unfair injuries and angry at how they can’t seem to play like before and how they managed to drop a 4 point advantage to become second on the table.

International break should be a nice change, but it comes and goes and it does nothing to help the invisible dark cloud standing above everyone’s heads. Iker tells them to keep playing their best games and keep fighting, not everything’s lost, but it doesn’t really feel like that.

-

He’s still tense around James when they come back to training, but when they step on the pitch, everything’s left out of it. The opportunities keep coming, and this time, they make the most out of it. James doesn’t even have to look up at him to know where he is on the pitch, to pass him a perfect ball for him to score his first goal in the game. James smiles at him when they walk towards each other, open his arms as if it’s automatic response, allows Cristiano pull him into a hug.

“You’re the best,” Cristiano says, laughing as he tucks his face on James’ neck.

“I know.” James replies, but he’s smiling, too, and they get squeezed together again by Marcelo and Karim.

In the end, he thinks it’s a pretty inappropriate time to fully realize he’s in love with a teammate, in the middle of a game and all.  

-

“Have you read Marca?” Marcelo asks first thing next morning, after an unbelievable win of 9-1, while Barcelona struggled to get the 3 points. It wasn’t much hope, but they might still have it.  

“You know I don’t read Marca. Or any other sports paper.” Cristiano deadpans. Marcelo giggles, honest to god giggles, which was normal Marcelo activity. He shows his phone to Cristiano.

 _James lights Cristiano’s fire._ In big red letters.

“Even they know it.” Marcelo says, looking way too pleased with himself for making Cristiano actually speechless.

“Shut up.” Cristiano says, which is great, very grown up of him.

“I’m serious,” Marcelo starts. “Talk to him. It’s not that hard.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Cristiano says, but even before he finishes Marcelo is throwing his hands up in frustration, sighing and rubbing his temples. He, then, glares at Cristiano, which shouldn’t be so effective coming from Marcelo of all people, literally private sunshine of the whole squad. He thinks Marcelo will make a fantastic Captain one day.

“Seriously, _mano?”_ With a look that said ‘of all people, you’re gonna lie to me?’. And it’s really not as if Marcelo didn’t see right through him. “Just do it.”

“Fine.” He says, and Marcelo actually looks taken aback he agreed, but pleased nonetheless.

Fine.

-

Coward that he is, Cristiano asks James to stay behind after everyone’s gone. He thinks - well, knows - that the decent thing to do would be ask him to come over, talk in the privacy of his home, but he’s done the same stupid thing before. (He knows Ricky was right. They’re not the same, Ricky and James, but Cristiano’s still a bastard with emotional issues, so they might as well be.)

“Can you wait a bit?” He asks James, touching his forearm slightly, speaking quietly enough for only James to hear. “We should talk.”

James nods, then, looking straight into Cristiano’s eyes for anything he’s willing to give away. He averts his gaze, turns back to neatly placing his things inside his bag. James does the same, and they both say their goodbyes to their teammates, and Marcelos drags Isco and Dani away so it’s just them, after all.

“So,” James approaches him again, drops his own bag on the bench and looks at Cris, expecting him to start talking whatever he wanted. “You said we needed to talk.”

“I did.” Cristiano nods, swallows past the lump in his throat, but doesn’t offer much more. James takes the silence as sign that Cristiano’s preparing to talk, but when it’s clear that he won’t, he speaks up again.

“Is this about–” James says, licks his lips. “Is this about that? What happened at the party?”

“And everything else, yeah.” Cristiano says, scratching the back of his neck. He didn’t know how to do this any other way than confessing and running, which he had experience with. But that wasn’t going to cut it.

“You were going to kiss me.” James says. Doesn’t ask, because he has no doubts, apparently. Not that he’s wrong.

“I need to explain that,” Cristiano says. “And I’m sorry. About the whole thing.”

“You’re. Sorry.” James says, incredulity leaking in his words. “This is what you have to say about it? That you’re sorry?”

He tries not to wince at the humorless chuckle James lets out. _He’s mad_. Great, Cristiano thinks, he already fucked up before even starting.

“No, look, I really am sorry. I know I shouldn’t have but I don’t want that to get in the way of us being friends. You’re important to me. I know I crossed a line–”

“Oh my god, but you didn’t!” James says, clearly frustrated. “You didn’t cross any line, you just. I don’t know, you just kept throwing me signs and touching me and making it look like you wanted to cross that line, but then you didn’t. And I wanted you to. I want you to cross the line.”

Cristiano can only stare dumbly at the outburst. James cheeks are flushed with frustration instead of shyness, bottom lip curved down in a pout and brown eyes staring defiantly at Cristiano, as if to dare him to do something about it. God, Cristiano wants him so badly it physically aches.

“You want me to kiss you?” He asks, not sure how he manages to keep his voice steady.

“Yes. Are you planning on doing it now?” And isn’t that a turn, James holding himself with all the confidence and courage Cristiano absolutely lacked in the moment.

“I’m trying to get past the initial shock first,” He says, unsure. He wants to touch him and kiss him, finally, but in the end, he doesn’t really have to do it. James closes the distance between them in two steps, cups the back of his neck and pulls him down on him until their lips touch. He suspects James in on his tip toes. He doesn’t care.

He snaps out of it and stops thinking, concentrates on the fact that they’re kissing, really kissing, finally. James’ lips are warm and full, much unlike his own, and Cristiano takes full advantage of that. He licks the boy’s bottom lip and James opens his mouth in a content sigh.

Before, when he thought about it, he imagined kissing James would be slow and gentle, have the boy pliant under him. In reality, it’s anything but. James doesn’t really content himself with _being_ kissed, and it’s almost as if he’s fighting back, one hand fisted on the front of Cristiano’s shirt, the other pulling hard at the hair on the back of his neck. He licks and bites and moans, and Cristiano feels hot and _hot_ and lightheaded.

“James,” He says when they part for air, foreheads touching and breathing heavily. He has both hands on the Colombian’s waist, thumbs sneaking under the shirt and touching soft skin. “You’re– What about your wife– Listen,”

“Daniela doesn’t mind,” James smiles, wildly then, anger gone and replaced by his trademark smile. “Trust me, she knows. She’s the one who had to listen to me complaining about you.”

“That’s– weird,” Cristiano says, but quietly thanks god for small blessings.

“Don’t think, then,” James chuckles, but kisses him again, slower this time. Cristiano does as suggested, because there really is no point in thinking anymore. Not when James wants him back. “We could. Have been doing this. For months.”  James says between the kisses he drops along Cristiano’s jawline, until he reaches that spot under his ear that he just knows makes Cristiano shiver.

“Are we doing this here?” Cristiano asks, even as he pushes James against the nearest wall, the one that covers them completely from the door. Small blessings.

“I don’t wanna wait anymore,” He says, and proves his point by grinding against Cristiano’s leg, already half hard. Not like Cristiano’s is in any place to judge at all, not when he presses himself flush against James,  feels himself in the same state against the boy’s hips.

“Someone could walk in,” He protests half-assedly, but it has little to no effect when it’s said against James’ neck. The boy only grunts in response, too preoccupied with his personal fight against the hem of Cristiano’s shirt.

“Take this off,” He says, clearly offended by the piece of fabric. Cristiano smiles against the smooth skin of his shoulder. He licks a the skin there, bites only hard enough for him to feel but not to leave a mark. He smells fresh out of the shower and so, so good. Fuck if Cristiano didn’t miss him.

“Why?” He asks, just to push James buttons.

“Because I want you to,” James whispers, simply, teeth scraping the shell of Cristiano’s ear and his breath is hot against Cristiano’s skin. And it’s terrible, so terribly good, the fact that James is already well aware that there’s little he’ll be refused when he asks like this; when Cristiano can feel, hear the smirk on his lips without even having to look, when he’s pleading to touch and be touched; when he speaks softly with and voice laced with want and a promise.

Cristiano’s _gone_. Heaven can’t help him anymore.

He pulls his shirt until it’s off, James’ hands immediately coming up to touch his bare chest, but Cristiano slaps his hands away in order to get him shirtless, too. It’s only fair.

Then they’re touching skin to skin, hands free to roam and Cristiano does so, feels the smooth, silky skin and watches as James flushes all the way to his chest, a beautiful shade of pink against recently sun-kissed skin. He maps the skin with his lips, careful not to bruise but it’s hard not to mark, sucking a nipple into his mouth until James is squirming under him. He’s too distracted with his own task to notice, but when he does James already has a hand inside his shorts, cupping him through his briefs.

“Stop teasing, we don’t have time,” He says, pushing down Cristiano’s shorts and briefs all together in one motion, just enough that he’s not constricted by cotton anymore. James wraps a hand around him and all the breath gets knocked off his lungs then, dropping his head against the boy’s shoulder again.

“Fuck, ok,” Cristiano breathes. “Fuck.”

“Finally catching up,” James says, grip firm and smearing pre come along his shaft to make is strokes easier. Cristiano gets himself together them, ready to return the favor, pushing the Adidas pants and briefs out of his way.

“Come here, let me,” Cristiano kisses his shoulder, then his lips, and swallows the broken moan James lets out when he gets both of them in his hand, cocks aligned together and rutting against each other. James circles his arms around him, hands gripping his ass and trying to bring him closer.

“Please, I’m close already,” James says, not an ounce of shame in his voice, and Cristiano would be lying if he said he’s better than that, with all the tension that’s been piling up for months on him, with every touch and hug and supposedly innocent kisses James pressed against his neck in front of everyone.

He increases the pace of his strokes, steady and a bit too tight, but James doesn’t really seem to mind as he rolls his hips and fucks up into his hand, leaking all over their shafts. He feels James tensing, and turns his head so he can kiss him, muffle the Colombian’s moan as his movements become more desperate and erratic, sweat dripping down his forehead. It takes only a few more fast strokes for James to come all over his hand, pulling Cristiano over the edge with him. James moans his name as he climaxes, the sound followed by a grunt, and that’s all it takes for Cristiano; he comes while James tries to prolong his orgasm, arms wrapped tightly around Cristiano. He buries his face in the boy’s neck, muffling his own sounds, listening to James whispering encouragement.

They stay like that for a while, but they both know it was not the smartest thing to do.

“Let’s cleaned up and go,” Cristiano says, kissing James’ cheek.

They do a decent, fast job of getting themselves cleaned, James breaking into Isco’s locker to steal a pair of clean pants while Cristiano grabs shorts of his own.

“You know Isco’s locker combination?”

“Everybody knows his combination.” James rolls his eyes, but even that can’t seem to wipe the content smile he has on. Cristiano knows he’s smiling like an idiot, too, but what he can’t see won’t embarrass him.

“Let’s go,” James says when he’s ready, backpack thrown over one shoulder. Cristiano stops him, pecks him on the lips, still half amazed that he _can_ now.

“Come over.” He whispers, looking at James’ face for any indications that it wasn’t the right thing to ask. James’ smile turns into a smirk.

“I thought that was settled,” He says, and Cristiano wonders if he got the cockiness from spending too much time with him. “I’m not nearly done with you.”

“I hope not.” Cristiano says, but guides him out of the locker room before they decide they can’t really wait until they get to Cristiano’s house.

James walks, he follows.

-

He feels guilty for doing something so cruel to James, especially when he looks like _that_ , expression lines smoothed, breath even, looking so peaceful and angelic that one wouldn’t even dare insinuate he’s the one that put that nasty scratch mark on Cristiano’s back.

“Wake up,” He says, kissing the back of James’ neck, making him stir a little but other than that, nothing.

“Come on, don’t pretend you can’t hear me,” Cristiano continues, combing his fingers through soft, messy brown hair.

“Get off me,” James grunts into the pillow, or at least he thinks that’s what he said.

“You promised,” Cristiano doesn’t stop the soft touches, knowing that it’s the only way to make James feel a bit better about being woken up and blackmailed at 7 a.m on a Sunday.

“You’re a grown man,” James protests, but he knows he has to get up. Cristiano’s already showered and changed, knowing how much of a work it’d be to get the younger man to wake up.

“Ninho isn’t,” He says. “Nor is Salo, or Enzo, by the way. Do you really want to disappoint them? I can see it already, their sad faces when I tell them Zoo is cancelled because _someone_ didn’t want to wake up. And Marcelo will kill you.”

“I hate both of you.” He huffs, but he knows there’s really no way he’d deny the kids the playdate they’ve been begging for months.

“Okay,” Cristiano laughs, letting James accept his fate and wake up fully, face swollen with sleep and hair sticking up in every direction.

Cristiano loves him.

“Go get ready, I’ll start breakfast for us, ‘Ninho’s starving. Call Daniela and tell her we’ll pick them up in an hour, I’ll tell Marcelo.” He kisses his forehead, and James nods, still lazy with sleep.

 

Cristiano _loves_ him.

**Author's Note:**

> guess who ignored all her unfinished works and to bring in in brand new 11k of cristiano being a dumb baby? this girl!
> 
> useless facts: 1) do u know how much research i had to do to get all the matches accurate? never. again.  
> 2) the 'james lights cristiano's fire' headline by marca is completely REAL. google it.
> 
> 3) i'd like to thank my amazing mermaid friend who happens to have invented this pairing on the first place, i love you and thank you for being a pain in the ass and (by request) bullying me into writing this every day. look at the monster we created. and my beautiful amazing patient beta who refuses to take credit, thank you for helping me with all the stupid ass grammar. 
> 
> it's been so long since i've written something THIS long and it was awful i'm never doing it again! anyway comments and kudos are always deeply appreciated.


End file.
